Forbidden Fruit
by Aerlinnel
Summary: "Now the tale of Nine is filled." I've been waiting for so long to write that. Why else the nine chapters...? A/L slash. A/U.
1. Prologue

He was with her now.

The sea-blue eyes, fixed on the lofty window of the royal bedchamber, narrowed at the thought. A flinch briefly marred the elegant features.

__

Ai, Elessar…why do you perjure yourself so?…

There was no doubt in the prince's mind as to where lay the heart of the king of Gondor. He trembled as the memory, never far from his mind, replayed itself unbidden – the light of the moon and the murmur of the Nimrodel, its chuckling course mirroring the tears that stained Aragorn's face as he allowed himself to grieve for Mithrandir – the one time that Legolas had seen the Ranger in any less than complete control of his emotions. And then – ah, Elbereth, but how it still made him twist inside, his knees locking to his chest as if to ward off pain – the sweet, fumbling brush of lips; a short skirmish of tongues; then a desperate groan as the Man pulled back, plunged away into the forest. Then, the day after, the Company had come upon the Elves of Lórien, and the episode had never been spoken of again. And the War of the Ring had been fought and won, and Aragorn was proclaimed King of the West, and had gone through with his wedding to Arwen. Never had a word been breathed of that searching, searing kiss, but Legolas could still feel it burn through his veins, and he knew the other felt it also.

Legolas's gaze refocused on the window high above. _Aragorn_, he cried silently, as if by the power of his thought alone he could summon his beloved. _Aragorn, you are being false to yourself, to Arwen, to me. How long will you maintain this charade?_

He held his breath, half-expecting Aragorn to answer. But the only sound that reached his keen Elven ears was that of low laughter and muffled noises. Biting his lip, Legolas turned away from the window.

There would be a confrontation, and soon, he knew that. He could not help it. For more than a year he had choked off his feelings, playacting, assuming the role of only the close and loyal friend. The strain of the deceit was not so bad when he was away from Minas Tirith, but to dwell in the city – that, that was nearly beyond endurance. Yet to avoid the King completely would mean raised eyebrows, furtive speculation, rumours. And so the Elf stayed in the White Tower, never still, never peaceful, haunting the city like a homeless spirit. He could sense the restiveness swelling within him, battering at him from inside, and it was all he could do to keep it in check from day to day. His self-control was beginning to fray, and he only hoped and prayed that he would be in a private place when the dam finally burst.


	2. I

"…Legolas?"

The Elf blinked, shook his head. Aragorn was looking at him queerly. "Are you well?"

Legolas forced his mouth to reply. "Yes. Yes, Aragorn, I am fine. Why?"

Aragorn cocked an eyebrow. "Well, you have been more attentive in the past…" To prove his point, he swung his blunted sparring sword and managed to nick Legolas's shoulder before the Elf raised his own knife in defence. "That, for instance, I once would never have been able to do." He grinned, tapping Legolas with the flat of the blade. "Does age slow your reflexes, my friend?"

__

Friend…friend…always friend! How can he jest so lightly? Does he not feel the tension in the very air? With an expression that was less of a smile than a teeth-baring grimace, Legolas retorted, "I will show you 'age', Aragorn."

The Man was caught off-balance by the fury with which the Elf attacked. With a few short strokes he was divested of his sword and slammed against the stone wall of the outdoor sparring arena. Legolas was pressed against him, knife under his chin. His chest was heaving, though not from exertion – the onslaught should not have been tiring for an Elf. "Legolas?" Aragorn managed, panting, startled. His lips were parted and near, so very near…

__

So this is where the pretence ends. Legolas felt his self-restraint failing. _Nearly a private place, at least_…

It must have been he who first moved, but ever afterward Legolas could only remember a mutual coming together, a meeting of lips that was devastating in its illicit perfection. His knife fell away, freeing his hands to clasp Aragorn's face – that beloved, familiar face – and he felt his knees buckle as the Man's mouth opened to his own. Aragorn slid his arms around the slender body. "Legolas…" he breathed. "We are all too visible here. I know a place…by the orchard—"

An aching laugh tore from the Elf's throat – it surprised him, who wished more desperately to weep. "Oh, Estel," he whispered. "Is that all that you think I want?"

"Is it not?" Aragorn sounded genuinely perplexed. "What more…?"

Legolas traced the outline of his lower lip with a trembling fingertip. "I want to be with you forever, Aragorn, not only for an hour's sport in an orchard. I want to wake at your side every morning, and to listen to you fall asleep every night. I want to share every joy, every sorrow, every laugh, every tear with you for the whole of our lives, and I want to lay myself down and follow you beyond this world when you rest at last." His finger ceased its exploration, and Legolas smiled crookedly. "That is what I want, my King. Is it in your power to grant me?"

Aragorn's breath came raggedly. "That night – by the Nimrodel—"

"Yes." There, it was out, it had been broached. "I have loved you since I first laid my eyes on you, Aragorn, though perhaps I did not know it until – until that evening. I have been silent since then, and tried to hide my feelings. But it is hopeless; and now you are married, and it is too late, too late…" His silver voice was laced with despair, and tears shimmered in his eyes.

"Legolas, Legolas!" Aragorn held him close with one arm, his other hand caressing the Elf's face wonderingly. "Would that you had spoken before of this! I love you, I love you, my dearest prince, but you said naught, and I – I had nearly convinced myself that it was a dream, the night by the river."

Legolas laughed jarringly. "Then a true pair of star-crossed lovers are we. You have Arwen…"

"I know. I know. But – oh, Legolas…" The Man bent his head and pressed his lips to the prince's neck.

Helpless, Legolas let his head fall back, his arms gripping Aragorn's shoulders, hands tangling of their own volition in the dark head of hair. He knew that they could be seen from any number of windows of the Tower, but in all truth, he did not care. There was the King's reputation to think of, though – a scandal would hardly be easily overlooked in only the ninth month of his reign. "Aragorn," he whispered, a hoarse surrender. "The orchard…?"

Coarse stubble grazed his cheek as the Man lightly nipped his ear, sending icy shudders along his skin. "Come," Aragorn replied softly.

From high above, a pair of grey eyes followed the two out of the arena, stunned, crushed, but not entirely surprised. "No, Estel," _sotto voce_, "no, no…" A glistening tear darkened the wood of the windowsill.


	3. II

The cherry blossoms were falling, fluttering from branches already laden with green buds. Pale-pink wisps settled lightly over two bodies lying entwined, weary but sated. A warm scented breeze breathed through the orchard, tangling fair and dun hair together.

At length, the Elf stirred, awakening as tidily as he did aught else: a slow deep breath, just bordering on a yawn, segueing into a testing flex of muscles. His eyes focussed, and a tender upward curve shaped his lips.

The Man's expression was soft with sleep, though there was still a firm set to his jaw that delighted Legolas. He longed to look into the grey eyes, seeing love reflected newfound in their depths, but at the same time he was fiercely protective of the other's rest. Possessive, his fingertips lingered over the weather-roughened countenance, so different from his own chiselled features. Aragorn was the dark to his light, he decided; the night to his day. _Of course, there is beauty in night as well, though much unlike that of day._ A fey smile lit his face as he thought of the ferity that sometimes gleamed in Aragorn's eyes – wild and decidedly unkingly, but exciting, exhilarating. _Beauty, indeed._

The object of his study moved then, stretching lazily and wrapping his arms fast around the Elf, and Legolas was struck by a sudden fear that Aragorn would have forgotten, that he would thrust him away in shock and horror. But the eyes that opened to him showed not even a trace of dismay, and Aragorn smiled languidly and reared up to press a kiss to Legolas's brow. "I have dreamed of waking in your arms, golden one," he murmured.

A fleeting guilt surfaced in Legolas's mind, but it seemed foreign and irrelevant in this fragrant shining place. "As have I," he replied. Delicately he captured one of the snowy petals that spangled the dark hair, laying it across Aragorn's mouth. With a sharp exhalation, the Man sent it spiraling into the air, eliciting a peal of radiant laughter from the Elf.

"That is not what I want on my lips," he growled, mock-menacing, sending shivers prickling across Legolas's flesh.

Aragorn's playfulness abruptly evaporated as his challenge was promptly accepted by the Elf. "By Elbereth, Legolas!" he gasped into the other's mouth; appropriate, it seemed, to the stars that erupted across his field of vision. Had it been so short an interval since their lips last met? _Impossible. It has been an eternity, at least, if indeed ever I have tasted anything so sweet, so perfect._ He groaned and rolled Legolas onto his back, moulding himself to the slim body.

A laugh rippled again from the Elf, though now it was lower, more sensual. He squirmed, making soft noises deep in his throat, as the Man's hands slid over his chest.

__

So beautiful…Aragorn's fingers traced flat muscles, feeling the strength that lay just beneath the pale skin. His mind wandered, sought a fitting comparison for the ethereal creature that writhed and pleaded under his touch. _Like…like…like Arwen._

The sudden thought choked him. He, recoiled, struggling against the arms that now seemed to hold him captive. They released him, and he wrenched away, pulling himself violently upright. "Estel?" Legolas asked, bewildered, his tone hoarse with interrupted desire. "Are you unwell?"

"Arwen," was all Aragorn managed to force out. He buried his face in his hands as Legolas's face grew shadowed with guilt. "By the Valar! What have I _done_?" His voice cracked and soared on the last word, to his disgrace, as it had not done since his youth.

Legolas pulled his hands from his face. "Aragorn…" he whispered, casting about desperately for reassurance.

Aragorn shook his head slowly in helpless self-loathing. "I have broken my oath," he said, low, miserably. "I am forsworn in the most precious vows that I have made as King."

"Most precious?" The Elf's expression was blank, inscrutable, as he repeated the words.

"Most sacred," Aragorn amended, recognising his callousness. He reached apologetically to touch a blond silken braid. "Never the most precious, when they keep me from you."

Legolas hesitated, then carefully said, "Vows can be dissolved, Aragorn."

The Man looked up sharply, startled. "You would have me divorce Arwen?"

"Rather than betray her by our love? Which would you choose?"

Hope glimmered in his eyes, and he clasped Legolas's hand. "I would choose you with all my heart, my love." With a resigned sigh, he added, "Would that I need not hurt her, but I suppose it is better to be honest." He kissed Legolas gently. "I will tell her."


	4. III

Aragorn pushed open the door of the bedchamber. So sunk in thought of Arwen was he that he was startled to find her sitting at the window, as if he had summoned her. Her chin rested on her hand, elbow propped on the sill, and she seemed to gaze at something outside, but her eyes were unfocussed and distant with sleep. They seemed also reddened and terribly grieved, even in repose. _Has she been weeping? _Aragorn wondered.

A flare of protective anxiety surprised him in its ferocity. _I care for her. I love her. _The idea gelled into reality even as he said it to himself. _I do love her, though in not the same manner as she loves me. How can I hurt her this way?_

He drifted forward, compelled, studying her face as if he had never seen it before. _I remember our first night together, our first night as husband and wife – I lay awake for hours, watching her sleep, this beautiful being that had deigned of her own free will to bind herself to me. Ah, Valar, Great Ones, forgive me, I was not worthy – but I cannot do this thing. Though it be for my good and hers, I cannot send her away!_

His hand reached unconsciously to stroke her hair, dark tresses shining with the light of Telperion. _My wife—_

The gentle touch woke her. Feeling his proximity, she started to her feet, tensing, the back of her hand pressing to her mouth to stifle a cry. Her eyes were wide with shock and something akin to fear.

"Arwen?" Confounded by her response, Aragorn let his hand fall uncertainly to his side. "What ails you, dear one?"

The reactive fear slid away, replaced by disbelieving anger. "Sweet words, Aragorn?" she asked heatedly. "Am I to credit them?"

"What—" In one great rush of hideous, nauseating realisation, he comprehended, biting off his half-formed question. _By all holy! She knows! She _knows_!_

For long minutes, they stood paralysed, staring at each other, a maelstrom of emotions seething beneath the silence that stretched between them. Then Aragorn's expression seemed to crumple, and his hands came up to cover his face. "How…?"

"Does it truly matter?" Her voice was a mélange of pain, fury, bitterness. "I believe that the more pertinent question would be _why_."

Aragorn looked up at her, and the remorse and guilt in his eyes at once rent her heart and turned her stomach. "I love him," he replied at last, a helpless whisper.

She choked out an incredulous laugh. "Indeed?" she inquired harshly. "A fine time you choose to tell me, my husband!"

"Arwen, I swear to you – I never meant to wrong you!"

With a dry sob, she turned away, collapsed into her chair. "Elbereth," she pleaded, gazing out the window at the gathering dusk. "Gilthoniel, Tintallë…" She lapsed into her own language, speaking too softly for Aragorn to hear.

Long after her muted prayer had ended, they remained where they were: she looking away into the distance, he standing silent behind her. A tableau, lit by the setting sun, that might have appeared tender and peaceful in a different circumstance.

At last, Arwen breached the silence, her voice painstakingly deliberate to prevent its breaking. "What will you do, Aragorn?" Weary, deeply wounded, yet somehow not the tone of one who expected a major change in her own way of life.

"My wife…" _Estë, sweet-worded one, help me now. _"I would not hold you as my wife any longer. It would be a great sin—" Bitterly, he added, "Greater than that which I have already done you."

Her head whipped toward him, fathomless shock blanching her expression. "You would divorce me?" As swiftly as it had paled, her face flushed, and she rose sharply to stand eye to eye with her husband. "In favour of your – your – _catamite_?"

__

He is older than you, a corner of Aragorn's mind said helpfully, but the observation was irrelevant. A fell rage knotted his stomach, and he felt his teeth gritting. "Speak not so of him," he ground out, struggling to hold his voice level.

She made a derisive sound. "So the King keeps his lover in secret, with a fair wife to display on formal occasions."

Fumbling at the back of his neck, Aragorn replied, "I would give you an honourable divorce, Arwen—" He extended his hand.

"No, Aragorn!" she cried, recoiling from what he proffered, shaking her head in wretched denial. "Do you not understand? I love _you_!" She shut her eyes, and a single tear slipped trembling from her lashes, betrayed her. "I love—"

Abruptly she whirled and fled from the room, leaving Aragorn standing stunned, the light of the Evenstar dangling from his outstretched fingers.


	5. IV

Some hours later, there came a quiet knock on the chamber door, then Legolas's voice softly called, "My King?" When there was no answer, he hesitantly opened the door.

Aragorn knelt near the window, staring down at the Evenstar where it lay in his palm. Legolas's gaze fastened on the gem. "You could not," he said at length, holding his tone carefully neutral. Aragorn was silent and still; had he been an Elf, he might have been asleep. After a long while, Legolas turned back to the door, his heart cold.

"No."

He wheeled. Aragorn had risen, the Evenstar clenched in his hand, face drawn. "No," he repeated thickly. "I tried, Legolas. I tried. But Arwen…she…"

When it was clear that Aragorn had no inclination to finish his sentence, Legolas did so for him. "She would not agree."

The Man nodded in painful affirmation, then sucked in his breath as the other moved to leave. "Legolas, _please_!"

The desperation in his tone effectively nailed the Elf's feet to the floor. "What, my King?" he asked woodenly. "What would you have of me?"

"Do not call me that!" Aragorn returned fiercely, achingly mindful of sweeter epithets murmured only hours earlier.

"But so you are, my _King_, and naught more."

"Naught?" A brief, strangled sound that might have been laughter. "Naught indeed?"

"In all honour, no!" Legolas was now the one to raise his voice, as though by emphaticness he could muffle the miserable cry in his mind.

Aragorn stepped directly in front of him. "Tell me that you value your honour more than your heart, Legolas. Look me squarely in the eye, and tell me that." Legolas averted his face silently. With an oath, Aragorn gripped the Elf's shoulders, shaking him. "Tell me!"

"I cannot! Curse you, Aragorn, I cannot!" He at last stared bitterly at the Man. "Does it give you pleasure to flaunt my weakness so?"

The King dropped his hands, said softly, "No. No pleasure, my love…"

"_Aragorn_." Legolas's voice was dark with intensity as he backed away, arms held out defensively as he fought for control of his emotions. "Do not…"

"Do not do what? Do not speak the truth?" In a wave of recklessness, Aragorn threw his arms around Legolas, ignoring the bristling resistance of the latter. "I cannot lie to you, Legolas. I love you. I will never stop loving you, even if you tell me to stop saying so."

"Never…" Legolas abandoned his stiff immovability, but yet nothing in his manner gave an inch in the way of invitingness. "You use lightly a word that even Fangorn shied from."

"The Entwives are lost," Aragorn replied, though unwilling to yield to the digression. "Perhaps the Ents have forgotten how enduring love is."

"Stop!" Legolas struggled within the Man's hold. "Must you say 'love' ever and anon? This is a love that cannot be!" He managed to break free, but the other caught at his arms, wrestling the Elf down until he lay awkwardly across Aragorn's lap. A distraught sapphire regard was turned up to the King. "Why do you torture me, Aragorn?" The question was no more than a whisper, as all contentiousness drained from Legolas. "Please let me go."

Distracted by their close entanglement, Aragorn had to fight the impulse to touch, to taste. "I shall let you go – if you tell me that you do not love me. I shall let you go, and never lay a hand on you again." His arms tightened about the other. "Is that what you truly want?"

Legolas was silent, trembling with the fierceness of his internal battle. Ruthlessly, Aragorn began to remove his arms. "Is it, Legolas?"

"Elbereth, no!"

Uncoiling like a whiplash, Legolas flung himself on Aragorn, archer's arms securing the King in an unbreakable embrace. "No," he repeated, nearly choking on the word's forcefulness. "No, Aragorn—" – and even as he grated out his answer, he felt warm breath caress his neck, lips pressed in a kiss that would be chaste save for its location.

"Then tell me that you _do _love me." Teeth were bared now, and nipped all along the pale throat, centering on the spot that vibrated with the desired confession.

"I love you." Barely more than a whisper, it nonetheless seemed to echo between the two, filling them with joy and, at the same time, a despair alike to pain.

The same thought gnawed at both minds; it mattered not who actually voiced the concern: "Arwen?"

And the reply, as well, spoke for both. "Think not of her. Not now."


	6. V

The royal chambers were dark and silent; the very air breathed with anticipation. Legolas sensed the charged atmosphere as he entered, and he recoiled from the condemnation it seemed to impart. He had expected that, over time, the edge of the mortification would have been dulled, but it was not so, even after months of stealthy nightly rendezvous.

A weary sigh escaped his lips, a grievous sound with more than a hint of a sob. He had long loved Aragorn, but this was not the way that he wanted them to be together – skulking, furtive wraiths in the night. Burning with shame and desperation, he peeled off his tunic and dropped it before the cold hearth. Soon, soon he would be in his lover's arms, just beyond yon door to the bedroom, and he could forget the stigma that he felt branding him. Aragorn would comfort him; Aragorn would make it all well—

"Why have you come here?"

Legolas whipped around, his hands raised half in defence, half in entreaty. Whence came that voice?

Was it his own guilt that spoke?

A light pierced the darkness, a candle unveiled: Arwen sat in a chair by the fireplace. Legolas restrained a bitter laugh when he looked down – he had dropped his tunic unaware at her very feet. How he wanted that garment back now – even in a shirt and leggings he felt naked, bared and degraded in the flickering candlelight and her dark, expressionless regard.

"He is not here," she added, answering her own question. "I suspect that he has gone to look for you." She laughed mirthlessly. "Could you not at least arrange your trysts so that they do not disturb _me_?"

Legolas felt himself flush miserably, and directed a passionate unspoken curse at the candle for burning so brightly, illumining him in his disgrace. "I am—"

"Do not, do _not _tell me that you are sorry," she snapped. "If you were truly sorry, you would not be here."

His eyes dropped and focused on a speck on the floor. He could not breathe, dared not move – he was brittle, a shard of iron left too long in the cold, and a single movement would shatter him into a thousand fragments. _How, how, how? _His mind whirled with the energy unused by his body. _How has it come to this?_

Her gaze rested on him for long minutes. Though she reclined quite comfortably in her chair, Legolas felt her circling him, studying him, much as a wolf might eye her prey. "Whither has gone the proud prince of Mirkwood?" she asked finally, her tone mocking but deceptively mild. "Who is this sneaking shadow that stands before me?"

Legolas's hands clenched, and he looked up at her with an expression akin to defiance. "One who would follow his heart," he answered, "even into folly, if that is where he is led."

Arwen sat forward sharply, her knuckles whitening on the armrests, and Legolas flinched at the fury in her eyes. "He is _my _lawful husband, son of Thranduil," she hissed. "Elbereth knows I have paid dearly enough for him. Would you have me surrender my immortality for _nothing_?"

"There are ships—" Legolas faltered.

"Not for me, prince," she retorted. "I have publicly pledged myself to Aragorn. How can I go back on my word? There is no salvation in the West for me. Only shame – shame that I have bound myself to an illusion, a hollow marriage, a husband who languishes even in my arms for a forbidden love—" She drew a strangled breath and fell silent.

Despite all that lay between them, Legolas felt his pity stir. "Arwen—"

"You cannot have him!" she said furiously. "He is mine, Greenleaf, do you understand that? He made his vows to me, not to you." Then her voice lowered, became almost crafty. "Beside that, can you give him what I can give him, Legolas?" As the other Elf stiffened warily, Arwen laid her hand lightly on her stomach. "Perhaps he does love you. But what is love, when all of his hopes for the future lie in me?"

Legolas's mouth went dry. The darkness of the room began to fill with dancing colours; hastily he remembered to breathe again. He wet his lips. "You are – you are—" He could not bring himself to finish the sentence.

Arwen stood proudly. "I am pregnant," she announced, acidly triumphant. "I bear his child! I do not think that he will leave me now. Our Aragorn may be unwise in love, but he is shrewd in politics. The Reunited Kingdom desperately needs an heir if it is to remain reunited."

__

I am sitting on the floor. Why am I sitting on the floor? Stunned and bewildered, Legolas tried to regain his feet, but his legs refused to obey him.

Arwen knelt in front of him, reaching to caress his hair gently, a victor generous in her conquest. "Poor lovesick fool," she said softly, though her derisive tone was tempered by a pain that not even her contempt could conceal. Reaching behind her, she solicitously offered him his tunic; when he made no move to take it, she laid it in his lap. "You may stay here, if it pleases you. I am – not weary tonight." She rose and left the room silently. An agonised whimper followed her as she closed the door.

Legolas lay curled on his side on the floor, crying bitterly.


	7. VI

Legolas's tears were long spent by the time the door was pushed open. Unused to and exhausted by the torrent of grief, he lay motionless as Aragorn entered and slid the door quietly shut behind him. "Arwen?" he called in a low voice.

__

Even now, she is the first he thinks of.

There was a sharp intake of breath as the Man sighted the huddled form on the floor, cramped in a fetal position, long fair hair silvered by the moon where it spilled across the hearth. "Legolas?" He dropped to his knees next to the fallen figure. "Are you injured? Legolas, speak to me!"

The urgency in his voice was rewarded by a long, gasping sigh. Tenderly, relieved, Aragorn gathered the Elf into his arms, pressing light kisses to his forehead, feeling the tremors that shook the slender body. "You worried me, my love," he said softly.

Legolas tensed and turned his face away. "How can you call me this?" he asked, angrily, wretchedly.

The King's brows slid upward. "Is it not true?" he replied, a gentle jest. "Come, my love, you are overwrought. Come here to me." He tightened his embrace around Legolas again, murmuring soft endearments as his lips tickled the sensitive point of an ear. But the caress that normally kindled a fire in the Elf now roused nothing.

"Would you truly have me so, Aragorn?" asked Legolas, his voice smothered. "On the floor of the chambers that you share with your Queen? Know you where she is? Will she not walk in and interrupt us?"

Aragorn lifted his head to look down at Legolas, and there was finally a trace of guilt in his expression. "She is in her gardens," he answered. "I saw her as I came here. She will not walk in."

"And how does she?" The critical question; Legolas spat it out, barbed and bristling with significance. "How is Arwen this fine evening? Did you think to ask her?"

"I – no, I did not!" He sounded exasperated. "Legolas, what are you aiming at? Enough of these riddles! If you know something that I should know, then tell me!"

"Oh, I will, my liege." The Elf wrenched himself from Aragorn's arms, drawing himself up to look him in the eye. "Your well-beloved Queen is with child. _Your _child."

Aragorn's mouth opened, but no sound came forth. An indecipherable chaos of emotions flashed across his face. At last he grasped Legolas's shoulders. "You are sure of this? How do you know? How did you hear?"

A trenchant laugh. "From the lady's own lips." As the Man's hands slowly dropped useless to his lap, Legolas relentlessly pressed his advantage, adding, "She and I had a lovely conversation earlier, when I came in here – seeking you."

"I – oh, Legolas, I am sorry."

"Sorry!" The word was hurled back in Aragorn's face, ablaze with fury and disbelief. "You are _sorry_? For what are you sorry, pray tell? For my humiliation at being caught in your rooms by one who once trusted and respected me? For the fact that she _expected _to find me here? Or for yourself?"

Aragorn's spine stiffened. "I was thinking of you," he replied, his voice edged in response to inferred scorn. "Self-pity is not the way of a King, even a mortal one."

Incongruously, Legolas bit out a thin laugh. "You would pull rank on me, Elessar? Why? Surely lording it over a broken, shamed shadow cannot yield much gratification."

"A shadow?" The response was incredulous. "You wrong yourself greatly, Legolas. The light of your eyes is enough to brighten the Void itself—"

"Such sweet words!" Legolas exclaimed tartly. "What good do you think they do?"

"They are only the truth—"

"But useless, meaningless!" Legolas started to his feet. "I will be your courtly paramour no longer, Aragorn!" he added vehemently. "I will not wait in the dark for you, a passing pleasure in the night, a plaything to be hidden in a cupboard. I am an Elf. I have my dignity – or what is left of it after these three months. I should not be forced to resort to this cowardly, shameful secrecy. I will love you honourably, publicly – or I will not love you at all."

Aragorn was wordless, his face pallid in the moonlight. Legolas paced to the window, stared blindly out across the Pelennor to where the Anduin threaded glimmering through the night. A long, weighty silence filled the room.

"I have tried," said the King at last. "The Valar know I would have you at my side with all my heart, for all to see. But…Arwen. She will not grant me a divorce. And now…"

"Now she bears your child."

"Legolas!" Aragorn protested, but the Elf interrupted him with a sharp gesture.

"Do not bother denying it, Elessar. It is sound politics. Why would you send away one who may carry your heir in favour of one with no chance of ever giving you children?"

"Politics," the Man interjected, disgusted. "Has a King no emotions? What of his heart? What of his love?"

"Love?"

For a moment, Legolas looked as if he might weep. With an effort he restrained himself, instead asking, "Do you know the tale of Maedhros, Aragorn?"

Cautious, and startled by the seeming change of subject, Aragorn shook his head. "I remember the name, but little more. He is an Elf?"

"He was a son of Fëanor who swore an oath with his brothers to hunt the Silmarils and reclaim them for his father. But to reach them, he committed terrible sins – theft, murder – and when he at last found the Jewels, he was unable to touch them because of the evils he had wrought. Their holiness burned his flesh. In his despair, Maedhros killed himself." Legolas paused, his eyes dark and haunted. "And so feel I. What right have I to love, the holiest of things, if I wrong and hurt another by my love?" His voice failed, and the moonlight illuminated a shining streak staining his face.

"Legolas…" The Elf did not shy away now from Aragorn's embrace, his shoulders drooped and trembling, and Aragorn did no more than hold him, comforting him as he would a child, pressing his lips against the golden hair. "Do not weep, fair one," he whispered. "Please do not weep. I love you."

Muffled though they were in the Man's tunic, Legolas's words were as piercing as his renowned arrows. "There are some hurts that even your love cannot cure, Aragorn."


	8. VII

Was a little iffy regarding the rating on this chapter. This is definitely more explicit than I planned to get, but the more I tried to avoid it, the more these two protested its redeeming qualities, and it's never wise to argue with characters who have minds of their own. And this _is _nothing compared to some of the stuff out there. I was a little put off by ff.net's deletion of NC-17 stories, because that means that this is now classified as the gutsiest stuff out there, which I don't think is quite accurate, but I decided that it was better to be safe than sorry.

-Aerlinnel

Aragorn woke unpleasantly, sharply aware of extreme discomfort. Apparently he had fallen asleep on the floor the night before. He had begun to unbend his stiff extremities from the painful position when sudden memory returned, as abrupt as the sting of circulation newly restored to his limbs. Looking quickly around the room, he caught sight of the slim, straight figure standing near the bed, evidently studying a tapestry on the wall, so still that not even the play of sun on golden hair betrayed a movement. His arms were folded tightly, defensively, across his chest.

"Good morrow," he said flatly, not looking at Aragorn.

"Is it?" The Man completed his rise with that sardonic rejoinder, finishing with a roll of his shoulders to ease the kinked muscles. "How long have you stood there?"

"I never slept."

He paused, considered this. "And did you discover aught during your vigil?"

He expected no answer to his half-facetious question, but Legolas glanced seriously at him. "Last night I looked from the window and saw the Anduin," he began. "Therein lies the solution, I think."

Aragorn's voice emerged somewhat sharper than he had planned. "Legolas, what do you mean?"

The Elf read his lover's expression, reassured him. "Peace, Aragorn, I intend no ill to myself. I meant across the Anduin, in Ithilien."

The King's apprehension shifted to bewilderment. "What is in Ithilien?"

"Rather, what is not there. _You _are not there."

The other frowned, ill-liking the trend of the conversation. "I do not understand."

Legolas turned away, summoning all the strength of his will. "Send me away, Aragorn," he said imperatively. "I care not what questions it may raise. I cannot stay here. I cannot continue in this hypocrisy – hurting Arwen by loving you."

Aragorn paled, clenching his hands at his sides. "Legolas…no, I will not!"

"With all due respect, my King, I am not asking."

Legolas stood staring out of the window. The sunlight gleamed in his hair and skin, and turned him into a slender bright flame. In the presence of such a shining figure, Aragorn felt his own nobility and dignity pared away. "Please…" No more than a childlike whisper, with an unconscious step forward and hands outstretched.

Legolas backed away, pain scored across his face. "Touch me not," he said in an uneven voice, "lest you weaken my resolve…my love."

Aragorn's breath caught at the unexpected endearment. "My love…"

The Elf gave him a thin smile. "For so you are, Aragorn, my love, for now and always."

"And you are mine! Then how can you leave me?"

"How can I stay?" Legolas folded his arms, subtly hugging himself. "I am a prince, and I understand the politics of a kingdom. Your loyalties cannot be divided between myself and…and the Queen. I will not have a hand in a schism of Gondor."

After a moment, Aragorn grimaced. "You shame me, Legolas," he said quietly. "You think more of my kingdom than do I."

The other shook his head briefly. "I think only of the King," he softly answered.

This time he allowed Aragorn to pull him into his arms. Their cheeks brushed, and Legolas felt a trace of moisture. Wordlessly he turned his head to touch his lips to the salty dampness, and a shiver of a sigh trembled through the Man's body. "I love you," Aragorn whispered fervidly. "I love you."

"I know," came the low reply, in a tone threaded with expectance.

At last, Aragorn drew a long, tight breath. "If you must go to Ithilien, I shall not hinder you."

Legolas laid another kiss lightly against his temple. "That is well," he said gently, "for I plan to leave tomorrow."

"_What?_" Aragorn jerked away to stare at the Elf, who swiftly caught his hands and held them strongly.

"Is it not for the best?" he argued. "Would you have me linger, and draw out the pain with the farewell?"

The King's eyes fell, and presently his head moved slowly from side to side. "No, my wise one," he replied, looking up with a strained smile. "Curse you for being right."

Legolas laughed shortly. "It is not always a pleasure to be right."

"I suppose not." Aragorn clasped the slender hands to his chest, feeling his heart kick as if it leapt to meet the precious touch. "There is one thing I would ask of you, Legolas."

"Name it." The immediate response was accompanied by a squeeze of his hands.

Aragorn dropped his head to kiss the long fingers, willing away the constriction of his throat, then murmured, "If you are to leave on the morrow, then…once more, my love. Once more, for all time…" He trailed off into an unspoken query.

A silence settled as both weighed the risks of 'once more,' but in the end, the question was no question. Slowly, stifling the objections of his better judgment, Legolas extended a hand to trace the lines of care and responsibility that creased the beloved face. His fingers pressed into the back of the Man's neck and pulled him forward.

Their clothes fell away like shreds of a dream. There was an unaccustomed anguish in the kiss, a bittersweet brutality in the dueling of mouths and bodies. The Elf's legs went as weak as water, and he tried to draw his lover down with himself, but Aragorn balked. "I will not have you on the floor, as if you were some baseborn slave," he said harshly. "Your nobility deserves better than I can give you, but you will have the best that I can afford." With a rough kiss, he directed Legolas toward the bed.

Together they fell across the coverlet. Though tears glistened now in his eyes, Legolas was as gentle as ever before, as he propped himself above Aragorn and tenderly caressed his legs apart. The chafing pain as his lover eased into him was insignificant to Aragorn in comparison with the pain that burned in the Elf's expression.

"I love you." The King's voice was hoarse as Legolas slid slowly against him. "Always know that. I love you."

Unable to trust his voice, Legolas bent his head, sealing his mouth hard to Aragorn's as he rocked forward and back, gradually moving more freely and urgently. His brow furrowed deeply, and he slid a searching hand between their bodies as his muscles began to tense. Caught by the inexorable grip, Aragorn shuddered, yielding a muffled groan; felt himself dissolving, until he was aware of naught more than his name on Legolas's lips.

When his ragged breathing slowed, he found that Legolas had rolled away, knees drawn up to his chest to display the long, strong line of his back. Aragorn traced the line with his fingers and felt the Elf shaking. "Legolas?" he asked, troubled. "What ails you, my love?"

Crystal-blue eyes turned to him, seeming momentarily blind with grief. Then they cleared, though still shining with tears, and Legolas twisted to wrap his arms around Aragorn. "I love you," he whispered, lips moving against the Man's neck. "I love you, my own, my King." The other's skin was silk to his touch, the feel of morning dew and velvety golden _elanor _and sunlight filtering through the leaves of Mirkwood. His fingers roamed across Aragorn's back, pressing sensations into his memory.

"Legolas…is there no other way? If I were to—"

"No!" He pulled away hastily, snatching up his clothing from where it lay on the floor. "I feared this, Aragorn, if we were to love again, that neither you nor I would…"

"Be able to let go," Aragorn finished slowly. He sat up, cradled his head in his hands, as Legolas dressed. "Forgive me," he mumbled at last. "I should never have asked this of you—"

Legolas's tunic dropped from his hand. "Do not apologise!" he interrupted fiercely, desperately. He fell to his knees, laying his head in Aragorn's lap, arms wrapped about the Man's legs. "I beg you, Aragorn, do not apologise for loving me…do not take back your love from me!"

"Take back…?" Disbelieving, Aragorn slid from the edge of the bed to take the other into his arms. "Never, never, Legolas!"

The Elf seemed on the verge of weeping, an indulgence of emotion that he rarely allowed himself. Aragorn held him tightly, fighting his own tears. "Your love has been the greatest gift that I have ever received," he said thickly. "I thank you for it."

Unexpectedly, Legolas breathed a laugh. "I thank _you_," he replied. A kiss tingled against Aragorn's throat, and Legolas leaned back to gaze at him. "I thank you," he softly repeated, brushing a dark lock of hair behind the Man's ear. He hesitated, then added, "Please…tell Arwen – I am sorry."

Aragorn nodded. Legolas drew the same lock forward again, pulling his fingers gently through it. "You shall always be with me," he murmured at last, "forever in my heart."

"And you in mine," Aragorn returned. He struggled to swallow the tremor in his voice. "Forever."


	9. Epilogue

*Rómenelos – "East-flower", the fictitious capital city of Ithilien in Emyn Arnen

The news came to him through Boromir, the son whom Faramir had named for his brother, Legolas's dear friend since Faramir had died some forty years before. Ithilien's prince seemed to be saying something more, his eyes clouded with sorrow, but Legolas could hear nothing but a tremendous roaring in his ears. The walls spun away from him, widening and vanishing into a dizzying light.

"Legolas." A hand on his shoulder nigh unbalanced him. "Legolas?"

He stumbled back a step and nearly fell before something automatic took control of him, propelling him from the court of Rómenelos. From a distance, vaguely interested, he watched as his body strode to the stables, mounted Arod, and set off at a full gallop north. Surely that was not he, that blind, lonely figure careening recklessly along the steep paths of Emyn Arnen. Surely they were not true, those tidings that had left a great gaping void where his heart once beat.

The pitiable, desolate rider turned westward, crossed the bridge over Anduin that was all that had been rebuilt of Osgiliath. As the fragrance of Ithilien faded behind him, Legolas was drawn unwilling back into himself, forced to the realisation that it was indeed he who rode as though he were racing the Sun to the horizon. A wayward strand of hair lashed his eye, raising a sheen of tears that persisted long after the sting had subsided.

The Causeway Forts were unmanned, the gates flung open in token of the peace that Minas Tirith enjoyed. Across the Pelennor Arod dashed, gleaming grey in the late morning sun, to the foot of the Great Gate in the lowest wall of the City, where he came to a sharp halt. Legolas stared up at the gate towers, cried imperatively, "_Edro!_"

Without question, the doors of shining steel and _mithril _rolled back. A figure in the black and silver livery of Gondor stood in the road, dwarfed by the size of the gates to either side. His eyes flared with recognition as they fell on Legolas, and he bowed deeply. "My lord," he began sadly, "I am sorry, but you are too late. The King is…"

The rest of his sentence was swallowed by the wind of the Elf's passing. He rode at a breakneck pace through the City, cursing the road that wound its lazy way from level to level. At last he reached the sixth circle, only to find his path arrested by a throng of Gondor's people. From his vantage point atop Arod, he could see over the heads to the door outside of which they stood.

__

Fen Hollen. The Closed Door is opened.

"Elbereth," he whispered. "Oh, Nienna, help me now!" He flung himself down from Arod's back, thrusting through the silent crowd that gave way without protest. The foreboding door loomed above him for a moment, and then he was past, running without hindrance, his soft footfalls throbbing in his head, until Rath Dínen and the mansions of the Kings opened before him, and a shadow was cast over his entire world.

Before the nearest and greatest of the houses stood Arwen Undómiel, her hand resting lightly against the shut door, head bowed. Legolas took one step, and then another, feeling as though he struggled through sucking mud. At Arwen's side, a tall man holding the royal crown looked up sharply as he approached. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice stricken and harsh. "What right have you to come here?"

Arwen stirred then and turned, and her eyes rose to meet Legolas's. Despite the evil little creature with its teeth in his heart, he was struck by the dullness of her expression, and it seemed to him that she stood already in Death's embrace. "Peace, Eldarion," she murmured. "This is Legolas, son of Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen; your father's…close friend."

The new King's countenance softened, and he apologised for his rudeness to a member of the storied Fellowship. Legolas summoned a shred of civility to acknowledge him appropriately, his glance resting on the door beyond the Man.

"Allow me a moment with the Prince, my son," said Arwen, and Eldarion nodded, moving away slowly to where three young women stood huddled – his sisters, apparently.

Legolas stepped forward to touch the smooth wood of the door, seeming colder and less yielding than stone. Arwen watched, making no move to prevent him. "He thought of you, if it pleases you to know," she offered. "He would not send for you; he said that he wished to spare you another farewell."

A sob tore his throat in an effort to escape. He turned his back to the mansion, grimly fighting for his composure, and looked around desperately for a distraction. To this end, his focus fell on Eldarion; morbidly, he studied the features of the son of his love, seeking echoes of another face. The Queen followed his attention.

"He named him for both of us, of course." Her eyes, dark with grief, slid sidewise toward the golden-haired Elf. "_Eldar ion_ – son of Elves."

"Of course," he forced himself to reply, his gaze fastened on the sorrowing young Man. He looked so like Aragorn – the same dark, slightly unruly hair; the same quick, knowing glance; the same manner of thoughtfully chewing his lip. And, naturally, there were Arwen's fair complexion and gentle smile. But, strangely, Eldarion had not inherited the grey eyes of either of his parents – his were a clear, crystal blue, of the same shade as those that now watched him.

Legolas inhaled in surprise as he realised, as Arwen added, "I know not how you managed to influence my son, Greenleaf, but influence him you did." Yet there was no malice in her voice, nor any of the resentment of old. At the prince's wary glance, she lifted her shoulders in a listless shrug. "He told me that it was your thought to remove to Ithilien." From her tone, _he _was evidently not referring to Eldarion.

"Do you now believe that I am sorry?"

Slowly, she answered, "Yes. I believe that you are sorry. I also believe that you truly loved him." For the first time, then, she looked directly at him. "It was hard to reconcile those ideas."

"And…" He hesitated, then asked, "Can you forgive me for the ill that I did you?"

"Oh…" She waved her hand vaguely. "It is long past mattering now."

"But – Arwen, please, for my sake – will you not say it?"

She fixed him with a long, weighty look, piercing as ever despite the remoteness of her expression. "You wronged me greatly, Legolas, you and he both." He shifted and very nearly squirmed under the condemnation in her eyes – that burning gaze that tormented his conscience even in his dreams. Then the moment passed, and she was once more only a woman worn with pain and heartache. "Yet I do forgive you, if you would have me say so aloud."

The relieved response was cut short by her next words. "Indeed, it would be cruel to leave you so unfulfilled. After all, I will be with Aragorn soon. You…well, Ilúvatar only knows when you might see him again."

Legolas's teeth snapped sharply into his lip. The tang of blood in his mouth came as suddenly as the surge of agony that Arwen's statement caused. He felt as though he had walked into a wall where a door ought to have been. The truth was appalling in its finality – he could never, never reach Aragorn again, save perhaps in some vague idea of the Second Music, uncountable ages in the future. He swallowed convulsively, hands clenching air.

Arwen spoke again before he could order his thoughts. "I miss him so," she whispered, almost to herself, and Legolas eyed her in numb disbelief. Did she not understand the knife she had just twisted into his breast? He had never known her to say anything without careful thought, but – she could not be _so _cruel!

"I miss him too," he managed, each word clipped and bitter. She looked again at him with a glimmer of realisation.

"You do," she said, as if stating a newly-recognised fact. After a minute, she added, "He missed you as well."

The revelation hurt to hear, but it was a peace offering, in a way. With an effort, Legolas reached to accept it. "Was he…" He struggled to fit words to his thought. "Was he content? Was he happy?"

Arwen heard the underlying question: _Were you good to him?_ "I did all that I could, Legolas. Whatever was in my power to please him, I gave him."

Legolas nodded determinedly. "Good, then. Good, then." His mouth worked, but he checked whatever he was about to say, glancing first at the door, then back at Eldarion, seemingly at a loss.

His hesitance did not escape Arwen's notice. She beckoned to the porter standing nearby, who approached with a muffled jingling of keys. "Go in, Legolas," she said. "Go and see him one last time."

A sudden trembling took hold of him, forced him to grit his teeth and twist his hands around the strap of his quiver. After a moment's falter, he turned to the door, which the porter opened for him.

The wide vaulted chamber struck chills into him, so like was it to his memories of Moria. But here, unlike Moria, torches hung flickering on the walls, casting light into the shadowy corners and on the bed in the centre of the mansion.

He started at the sound of the door closing behind him. There was naught else for him to do, then, than to step forward, towards that bed.

He blinked. The face that he had not looked on for sixscore years seemed younger than when he had last seen it. He dashed his hand across his eyes and looked again. No – there was youth there, but there was also age, and somewhere in the midst of all was the Man that he had known – and loved – so very briefly. Never had Aragorn looked more beautiful.

The Elf's legs crumpled underneath him, bringing him rather forcibly to kneel beside the catafalque. His gaze fell on the hands folded across the still breast, and he covered them gently with his own, lifting one to press it to his lips. "Aragorn," he whispered, caressing the fingers whose cold matched the cold in his heart. "My King…"

And then he was weeping, choking, "My love, my love," as he buried his face in the robes that still held their owner's scent. "Please come back to me…please…"

For a long while, the silence of the chamber was shivered by wracking sobs, as the son of Thranduil engaged in a most un-Elven bout of near-hysterical grief.

He lay on the bed in the guest chamber that he had been offered, gazing unseeing up at the ceiling. The semi-darkness was filled with ghosts of memories: with the fall of night over Minas Tirith, it seemed that at any moment Aragorn might enter the room, smiling with anticipation. Exhausted as he had not been in many years, Legolas closed his eyes, imagining the sound of the familiar soft knocking.

Suddenly there _was _a knock, and Legolas jerked upright, rigid, staring at the door. Never before had his senses deceived him, but…surely…

The knock was repeated, hesitantly. Shaking, Legolas walked to the door and opened it.

The flare of a candle blinded him momentarily, but through the glare he made out a thin, boyish figure, less tall than himself. "Lord," he said in a shy, reverent voice, "excuse me. This was found in his Majesty's rooms." He proffered a folded parchment.

Against the pale paper, the royal seal glowed in red wax; above was written Legolas's name in a strong angular hand. The Elf extended his hand automatically, watched as the letter was placed in it. Sliding past him, the servant boy deftly lit a lamp with his own candle, then backed deferentially out of the room and closed the door softly behind him; Legolas was left standing, staring at the parchment as if it might attack him.

Clamping firmly down on his shrilling raw nerves, he aligned a single finger under the seal and broke it gracelessly, ignoring the drop of blood that welled along the paper's edge. The page unfolded, backlit by the lamp's gleam on the table. The marks made no sense to him at first; in his mind he could see only their author, bent over this very parchment. Was he scribbling, hurried; were those crumples of drafts littering the escritoire? Or was he stroking the barbs of his quill, brows knitted, picking over words in his head? How many times was he forced to redip the point because the ink had dried while he was thinking?

Legolas's eyes focussed. He read:

__

28 Nénimë 120

Legolas,

I realise that you are, by now, enduring terrible grief, and it tears me to know that this grief is at my hands. I wish more than anything that I might be with you and comfort you, but the most I can give you is this letter, and an explanation.

If you have not already asked why I did not send for you, I know that you will, at some point. Please, please believe that it is not that I have not thought of you – for it is for completely the opposite reason. I want nothing more than to see you, perchance to hold you, one more time. It was only when I told Arwen of my decision a day ago and saw her grief that I realised I could not bear to see yours as well. I do not want you to stand at my bedside and watch me leave you, knowing that you cannot follow. I know not whether this is a selfish thought; I wish only that you not know the sorrow of both before and after the loss.

In all honesty, I am hopeful that death will be a relief for the both of us. I have sometimes cursed my longevity in these weary, lonely years since our parting. I could not and would not insult your pride by begging you to return, but never has a rider arrived from Ithilien but I prayed it was you. And it tortures me to think that you may have suffered in the same way, because of me.

I can offer you even less solace than I did Arwen, for she has at least the blessing of choice. What I will tell you is this: sail to the West. If there is any consolation in this world for such sorrow, it will be found in the beauty of Valinor. Promise me that you will not let that light that I so cherish in you be dimmed.

I hope that you might find it in your noble heart to forgive me for all of the pain that I have caused you. Know that everything I did, I did with you in my mind. In the light of Ilúvatar, after the sundering of Arda Marred and the end of all things, I will wait for you.

I love you.

Aragorn

"Legolas, my fool of a friend, what has gotten into you?"

The Elf had found Gimli packing his belongings, readying to return to the Glittering Caves after paying his respects to deceased King and friend, and had broached his proposal without preface. "Come, Gimli, tell me not that you have no desire to see the Lady again."

"You know I have, of course, but how could it be possible?" He took up his axe, lovingly wrapping the head in a stout leather sheath for safe travelling. "I never so much as touched the Ring, and—" he bowed ironically – "I am but a poor mortal. I could never set foot in the Blessed Realm."

To his surprise, Legolas laughed, a thin, forced sound. "I never expected to see the day when the son of Glóin would fear to challenge a rule," he mocked.

Gimli's eyes sparked in response to the needling. "I? Fear?" he repeated. Hefting his axe, he inquired, "Are you seeking the lesson that I spared Éomer, my dear Elf?"

"Then prove me wrong!" Legolas gripped the axe and twisted it horizontal, kneeling so that he and the Dwarf were eye-to-eye across the weapon's handle. "Come with me to Aman. Think on it – you could see the forge of Aulë – Mahal – himself!"

Wavering, Gimli tilted his head curiously at the other's peculiar urgency. "But why are you so desperate for me to join you?"

Striving for gaiety, Legolas said lightly, "Perhaps I do not wish to be rid of your foolishness just yet, _naugol_. I have need of a companion to help sail a ship, do I not?"

Gimli snorted. "You should be better off if you asked Elrond's sons; they have more of the Sea in their blood than do I. And they are as immortal as your good self, and not prone to defying the Undying Lands."

The jest seemed to touch a sensitive chord in the Elf: he stood abruptly, loosing a curse in his own Silvan language. "Mortals! Would that I lived in Doriath, which saw perhaps three mortals in the whole of its history!"

Gimli's eyebrow shot upwards. "It is a pity that I did not stay in Erebor, then, when I had the chance, instead of traipsing across country like no self-respecting Dwarf should do, with his ears filled with musical Elven nonsense."

It did not pull Legolas from his mood as Gimli had hoped it would; he remained staring inscrutably down at his companion, arms crossed firmly on his chest. Exasperated, the Dwarf released an explosive sigh. "Despite all of the Elves' vaunted tact and subtlety, they cannot comprehend less than a direct question! For the love of all holy, Legolas, what is wrong with you?"

"For the love…"

The Elf's clouded eyes were suddenly no more than an inch from Gimli's. Warm lips claimed his own; a gust of soft breath touched his face with the scent of sunlit forest. Then as suddenly as it had begun, it was over, and Legolas had drawn hastily away, faltering, "Forgive me. Forgive me." He turned his back, inwardly writhing. That was enough to ruin even a friendship as strong as theirs. What had he been thinking? Aragorn was not there. It was unfair and untrue of him to coerce Gimli into the empty place. He waited, flinching, for the condemnation to fall.

"I repeat, Legolas," came a voice, almost too gentle to recognise as his gruff friend's, "what is wrong?"

Nigh disbelieving, Legolas turned to look hesitantly at him. "You…you are not offended? Upset?"

"Something ails you, my friend," Gimli replied simply. "Otherwise you would never have done that. You are hurting and angry, and I would know why."

Legolas shook his head slowly, though his heart was singing with gratitude that the other had not taken insult at his _lapsus mentis_. "I cannot tell you why. You would not understand."

"This thickheaded Dwarf understands more than you might expect." When he received no answer, Gimli rolled his eyes skywards. "Elves and their secrets." Goading, he added, "I suppose I _must _join you, then, if only for the opportunity to question you further."

That at last produced the desired response, and Legolas's entire demeanour seemed to brighten, even though his voice was fleetingly choked. "Gimli," he managed finally. "Dear _elvellon_."

Gimli was not untouched by the epithet, but he narrowed his eyes and prodded the Elf with the head of his axe. "I shall become a simpering fool like you," he growled. "What have I gotten myself into?"

Legolas laughed, soft but now real. "Never mind that, my simpering friend," he returned. "Be you ready. We leave tomorrow for Ithilien."

__

Fin

From the author

That's right, it's over! What an odd feeling…this puppy's been following me around for the past five months. Many thanks to all who have reviewed and exhorted me to keep going; your lovely messages were what I came back to when the story was obstinately refusing to continue. I'm so pleased that you enjoyed this!

I'd also like to thank Aragorn, Arwen, and Legolas for being so complaisant during this entire shenanigan, and the Professor for not smiting me down the moment I typed "A/L" in the summary. And now, back to your regularly-scheduled canon…

An official dedication: this epilogue, to JastaElf, whose request for a sequel so closely paralleled what I had written already of this chapter that I was sure my computer had been hacked. :-) Happy belated birthday, dear, and I'm still waiting anxiously for Dark Leaf to be updated!

Cheers all, and write on!

-Aerlinnel


End file.
